What Shall I Call You?
by Beloved of Aragorn
Summary: Aragorn is a man of many names, but how did he come by so many? Spanning his lifetime, it becomes clear how he represents each name and title: names of a mighty king...NOMINATED FOR MEF AWARDS!
1. Estel

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This will be the first of 10 (or 9, it depends) of a series. It will begin with the first name of Aragorn and move on throughout his life as he receives each different name or shows a time that demonstrates that name or title. The first is the name Estel. He is a man of many (and many :D) names so I wanted to somehow focus on what they mean and how he embodies them or receives them. None of them will be that long, but I hope all you readers enjoy!

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**Estel: Hope**

Rain fell in glistening sheets upon the Misty Mountains, their towering peaks dipped in snow and shrouded in grey clouds. The valley of Imladris was not spared from the downpour, yet the rain seemed to fall lighter and sweeter into the ground. The sun was disappearing into the West and the shadows were long except for the last rays of light falling upon distant dwellings deep in the vale where the Elves resided.

A figure shrouded in a grey cloak clutched a bundled burden to its chest beneath the shelter of the warm mantle. The hood was pulled low against the rain. They sat upon a dark brown mare with strong, stocky legs that traversed the muddied earth and the descent into the valley. Three other riders on their mounts followed before and behind.

The rider in the lead came to a sudden halt. He threw back his hood even as the dying light glimmered on the silver clasp of his cloak: the star of the Dúnedain. He was a matured man with grey-flecked hair, pale skin, and a thin scar along his jaw. Long years of toil and hardiness were etched in him.

A golden-haired head appeared in the gloom of the evening and the rest of the company knew why their leader had stopped.

The Elf bowed his head in greeting. "Rangers of the North are always welcome here in Rivendell, yet rarely have they accepted our hospitality."

"Not often do we roam these parts since evil is ever wary still of your fair kindred," said the Ranger in the front. "But the Shadow is moving. Orcs have grown bolder in the past months, too bold."

He glanced over his shoulder at the figure behind him carrying something beneath their cloak. The Elf's gaze followed but did not yet understand.

"Follow me and I shall guide you to the House of Elrond where you may find rest."

The rain lightened as they neared the Elvish abode. Once they reached the stone archway where they could pass into the grounds of the Lord Elrond, the Dúnedain dismounted and led their horses forward behind their Elven guide.

"Your mounts will be taken care of while you follow me inside," he said.

They all pulled back their hoods when they were beneath shelter. Two others were matured men like the first, yet the fourth companion was a young woman. Her pale skin was smooth and her eyes bright, but a shadow of sorrow was on her countenance. The burden in her arms remained concealed even as they were greeted courteously by Elves and led to quarters where they could freshen up from the toilsome journey.

When they had their own rooms, the young Dúnadan woman gently laid the bundle in her arms on the bed. It stirred and little feet and arms appeared out of the blanket. A sad smile curled her lips.

"We are safe, my little one," she murmured as she reached out to stroke her son's cheek.

He sat up on the soft, silken coverlets, and his large grey eyes looked up into hers. He was only two years of age, yet he often appeared as though he understood what was happening. He was a bit thin for someone of his age, but still strong and healthy.

There was a clearing of someone's throat near the door. She turned and quickly bowed her head.

"Lord Elrond. I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality."

Elrond, lord of Rivendell, stood in the carven archway with a demeanour that was not overpowering but spoke clearly of power, authority, and wisdom. There was also compassion gleaming in his piercing gaze and that is what brought her comfort.

He stepped forward into the room. "You are most welcome. Your kindred will always find open doors here in Rivendell." His gaze fell fleetingly on the young boy. "May I ask your name?"

"You may." She slipped her hand over one of her son's and straightened her back. "I am Gilraen, wife of Arathorn Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North."

Elrond's brow rose a little, and he moved even closer so their voices would not be overheard. He looked down at the child whose eyes followed his every move with innocent curiosity. Although he was of the blood of the Edain, he looked a bit like an elven child as well. The beauty of his mother was apparent in his young face.

Elrond caught her gaze again. "Grim tidings reached us not but a few days ago of his fate. I am sorry."

Her head lowered as the still-sore wounds of grief panged in her heart.

"You may remain here as long as you so desire," he said. "It grows ever more dangerous here in the Northern lands as the number of Orcs grows by the day. At least you can be comforted for Arathorn's death was not in vain." He watched as the boy crawled towards the other end of the bed and laid down on one of the pillows. "The Heir of Isildur…"

"My own safety does not concern me, yet my son…I knew he would be safe here. I…I wish to request something of you, Lord Elrond."

"Anything you ask, I will grant." He already had a notion of what she desired and was full willing to accept.

"I would ask that your hospitality extend to my son, the Heir of Isildur, not only for a few days or even a few months, but for as many years as need be. Please let him stay here where not only will he be protected, but he will be raised among the Eldar who can teach him great wisdom and lore that Men cannot."

"Not only will he be able to stay, you may also, Lady Gilraen. Now that his father is gone, he shall need his mother more than ever. He carries a great burden and the fate of your people. I will not allow the line of Kings to be destroyed for the Dark Lord ever seeks to find the one who could unite Men against him as in the days of old. He will not find him here."

"Thank you again, my lord. I cannot express enough gratitude for what you have done for us." She took his hand and kissed it in reverence. "Thank you."

"You are in no way in my debt for this, and I shall make certain you are both honoured in this household. One thing only I request."

"Yes?"

Elrond began to slowly pace about the room. "That his true identity be hidden from him until the time is right."

Gilraen sat beside her son and stroked his dark hair. He had fallen asleep. "Let it be so."

Elrond walked around to the other side and gently laid a hand upon the boy's head. "He shall be called…Estel; for he is the Hope of Men. And I shall take him in as if he were my own son so he might be raised in the ways of both the Elves and of Men."

"Estel," Gilraen whispered as if testing it upon her tongue. "My beloved Estel. The Shadow can no longer reach you."

As he looked down upon the child of the Edain, the Elf lord's compassion was stirred and he pulled back his hand. "I do not think he will pass into shadow, forgotten and hidden like his fathers before him. There is a great destiny laid upon your son."

She looked up with surprise shining in her eyes and glanced back at Estel. Indeed, he looked small and fragile, yet a fate greater than that of all those before him awaited his older days that not even Elrond could foresee.

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**NEXT**: Aragorn 


	2. Aragorn

**A/N: **Here is part 2! Thanks to everyone who is reading this (or will read it) and especially to Allee1 and Rangerofthenorth-Estel. The only thing was that I'm not exactly sure how many pieces the Shards of Narsil alludes to. 2? 3? Or a lot like in the movies? It sounds like 2 or so in the book since Aragorn has it in a sheath with him all the time. Hmm...I don't know. Anyway...

Enjoy!

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**Aragorn**

Into the North in Eriador, the Shadow reached out its grasping fingers. Orcs grew in number and evil creatures—like the Trolls or Wolves—walked the lands freely. Yet there was a force hidden within the North that still waxed strong against all wicked things, guarding all Free Folk against the minions of the Dark Lord.

The sun was setting and light was quickly fading. Night would soon cover the forest in darkness. And the dark would bring out things that dared not walk openly in the sunlight.

A band of Orcs made their way down from the Misty Mountains in the cover of night and of the tall, shadowed trees. They thought they were being fairly quiet, but they could be easily heard or espied from a distance. Especially when the eyes seeking them were sharp as the eagle's. The Orcs trampled the ground and broke branches. They reached a thickening of the trees where the shadows were deeper and the underbrush taller. Normally they would have been wary or watchful, but they were just glad to find more darkness where they were most comfortable. They did not see the trap that awaited them there in the wood.

Shrieks and growls shattered the stillness when arrows pierced those in the front or straggling to the side. Three fell first, then two more were shot in the throat before their assailants appeared out of the shadows as vague figures moving swifter than their dulled eyes could track. Curved swords and blunt daggers were pulled out. One cloaked man boldly attacked from ahead while two others came from the sides.

Some Orcs tried to flee but were cut down the easier as they tried to run instead of defend themselves. Their numbers were soon dwindled to a third of what they had been. Their hideous faces leered and snarled even as they knew they were no match for the enemy that ambushed them on their own advantageous ground.

The tallest attacker slew two Orcs with one stroke and blocked the blade of another coming up behind him before he spilt his black blood as well. His bright sword was stained with the filth. He then leaped over their bodies to aid one of his companions.

There was a sudden silence. The last sound was of the last Orc's throes of death as he cursed the one who took his life, though in vain. One of the cloaked men drew back his hood. Though very little light fell near them, his face was clearly seen in the night and it was that of a fair Elf. He looked to his companions.

"Let us leave them where they lie so any others who pass here will know the wrath of the sons of Elrond and fear to roam these lands."

Two sons there may have been of Lord Elrond of Rivendell in blood, yet another there was who was as a son to him, and he was the third of their small company.

They walked out of the forest into more open land where the moonlight encircled them and glistened upon their heads. The Elvish cloaks upon their shoulders nearly hid them from mortal sight and the weapons they bore were also of Elven make. Nonetheless, when the other two doffed their hoods, only one was another Elf. The third was of the Edain even though many mistook him for one of the Fair Folk. He had their beauty but was strong as his own people. His chiselled features were fair and noble, his hair dark and his eyes grey like twilight.

"Well met, Estel," said Elladan to the young man. "You have proven the valiant character of your heart and done great deeds this night. I am proud to call you friend and brother-in-arms."

"Truly," said Elrohir. "Those of the Shadow should fear your blade."

Estel smiled grimly. "I hope that is true for us all. Let us depart from this place." His eyes shone. "There are more Orcs to hunt."

The horizon was tinged with gold and the sky still grey when Elrond learned of the return of his sons and Estel, his foster-son. He arose to meet them. The air was cool, though no wind stirred, for the sun was not yet risen, and dew was on the grass. The Elf lord passed through a corridor open to the outside and down a set of steps into a small courtyard. They were already there speaking to two other Elves about their journeys. Elrond looked upon his sons Elladan and Elrohir with a gleam of pride for they had become a thorn in the Enemy's foot. Yet when his gaze fell on their third companion, he stared.

He knew Estel had accompanied them. He knew he was skilled enough to match the twins. But he felt as though he looked on the young Estel with new eyes. As a father one day sees his son and wonders at how he has grown, so Elrond saw him standing amongst the Elves as if he were of their blood. He was taller by a hand's breadth than all of them and broader in the shoulders even though he was muscularly lean. Only eighteen years had passed since Estel came into his household at the age of two. Now at twenty years, he seemed matured beyond his years.

They paused in their talk when Elrond approached. Each bowed their head in greeting before the two other Elves courteously departed.

"Good day, father," said Elrohir.

"I see that your enemies were the unfortunate ones."

"Indeed they were," said Elladan. "They have learned to fear the cover of the forests where once they found refuge."

"They may be more in number, but they often roam blindly," said Estel. "Apparently their fear has done nothing to improve their tactics."

"Ah, this young Edain has done mighty deeds this month." Elrohir clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You shall hear tell of them in the Hall of Fire tonight, father."

"Yes," said Elladan, "no orc dared to meet his blade for he was like a mighty wind that swept them down. His kindred would be proud…as we are."

Elrond again gazed upon him with shining eyes and a sudden realisation. _He has become a man, a man of valour and wisdom. I can no longer withhold the truth from him for he deserves to know. He has shown himself more than worthy of his blood even at so young an age. It is time…_

"Estel, come with me. We must speak alone."

Estel glanced at Elladan and Elrohir, then nodded. "Of course."

They left the others and walked to a room Estel had only been in twice before. It was a private study of sorts of Elrond's where important discussions took place, discussions Estel had never been able to hear as a child. The light was growing on the horizon that was seen through all the arched windows open always to the air even in winter. The Elvish carpentry was of the finest make and had lasted for over four thousand years. There was also an image upon one of the walls that he had never forgotten since the first time he saw it. A mighty man of great height and kingly features bore a bright sword in his hand. The sun shone upon his helm and the wind seemed to billow out his mantle. It was Elendil of old, the King of Gondor and Arnor and renowned lord of Men. He was one of the many men of elder days whom Estel admired most.

Elrond stood at a window with his hands resting on the ledge. He watched as the sun climbed higher and higher until it was high enough a sliver of its liquid gold reached over the mountains.

"Estel," he said as he finally turned to look at him, "there is a very important matter we must discuss. It's been hidden from you for long enough."

A slight frown creased his brow. "What has been hidden?" His heart began to beat quicker in his chest, though for what reason, he was not sure.

"Eighteen years you have been hidden. Eighteen years the Enemy has thought you dead. But no more! You shall know of your true lineage and your true name for the time is come. The time has come for you to come out of seclusion and do that which you were born into."

Estel's eyes gleamed with wonder as Elrond stood in front of him and held his gaze.

"Your true name is not Estel. You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, of the line of Isildur and Heir to the throne of Gondor. All your fathers before you were Chieftains of the Dúnedain and of an ancient line renowned and honoured by all Free Folk. There is blood in you of the noblest of Men even descended from the Kings of Númenor. You are the Heir of Isildur, Aragorn of the Dúnedain."

Astonishment rippled through him as his heart pounded. Could it be true? Or was this a dream?

Elrond stepped back and knelt before a chest against the wall beneath the painting of Elendil. The chest was of rich, dark wood inlaid with silver detailing on the edges. The latch was a leaf of silver also that softly clicked as Elrond opened the heavy lid. He reached in and drew out a few items swathed in elven material like that used in their garb. He set them on a table and first grabbed a small box. When he opened it, the morning sunlight glinted on something green within.

"The Ring of Barahir," murmured the Elf lord as he offered it to Estel—now Aragorn.

He took it and gazed in wonder at the ancient ring, the emerald eyes of the two serpents shining up at him.

"It is an heirloom of your bloodline passed down through the ages even from Barahir of the First Age. It is now in your keeping for you are the rightful Heir."

Estel slipped the ring on his finger. It fit perfectly.

Elrond then lifted the largest item and removed the cloth. It fluttered to the floor. Estel's eyes fell on the sheathed sword. A stirring in his blood caused a shudder to trickle down his spine. He knew this was no ordinary sword though the sheath was plain and had a strong notion of its name before Elrond spoke it aloud

Elrond put it into the young man's hands with a reverence not missed by his sharp eyes. "This…this is the Blade That Was Broken, the mighty sword that cut the One Ring from Sauron's hand, and the weapon of King Elendil…your forefather who preceded you almost two thousand years ago. This blade did great injury to the Enemy when wielded by the hands of such renowned men. May it one day do the same in your hands."

Estel looked up with surprise into the eyes of the lord who he had looked to as a father all those years as a boy growing up. He knew they did not share blood, yet now perhaps they did in a very distant way. Gilraen, his mother, told him of his true father when she could, but never his name or how he died. She merely said he was slain by Orcs and of his character and spirit. Now he understood why.

He ran the tips of his fingers down the hilt and allowed his fingers to wrap around it. His head tightened in a firm grip on the leather, and he pulled. The sword seemed to rasp sorrowfully out of its sheath. Only one piece even came into view for it was still broken after three thousand years, and the light was gone out of it. It looked much like any other simple sword, yet Estel could almost feel the years and stories etched within it as he touched the cold metal.

"The Shards of Narsil," he murmured.

He did not see the expression of amazement in Elrond's face as he saw a glorious sight that would have made even Sauron himself tremble. The son of Arathorn stood tall and mighty, grasping the sword with a powerful arm and with passionate fire shining in his piercing gaze. He was near the image of Elendil: he held the piece of the shards much like the King of old did in the painting when the sword was whole, and both were fell and fair in appearance. The similarity caused Elendil to stare at the two kingly figures. One had done his mighty deeds while the other was of flesh and blood and yet to reveal his full might.

Estel returned the blade to its place and sighed heavily. "There is much history in this sword. It carries with it a burden of responsibility I can already sense."

"But I know you can bear it just as easily as you will bear the weight of the sword itself," said Elrond. He laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "This is your fate. And this is your choice: to bear the name of Aragorn worthily and lead your people against the Shadow or to let yourself be in despair and not fight the Enemy with all that is in you."

Estel gave a firm nod with a steady gaze. "Though the road be hard, I will not falter. I would die before failing my kindred and all enemies of the Dark Lord." A brilliant gleam flashed in his grey eyes. "Sauron will find that the North is no longer open to his hand or malleable to his forging. I shall gladly accept the name of Aragorn son of Arathorn and all responsibility within my blood."

Aragorn took leave of Elrond soon after. The revelation was overwhelming, but he revelled in the tidings. All the mysteries of his youth were answered, and his heart swelled with the joy to know he was in company with those such as Elendil and Isildur…and Arathorn, his father.

To ponder the weighty tidings, he walked outside along ways familiar to him from all the years raised in Rivendell. He found himself amongst the blossoming birches where a fresh, sweet scent was in the cool breeze. So glad was he that he watched the lush beauty as his voice lifted onto the air and sang the Lay of Lúthien. His voice was pleasing as an Elf's: clear, deep and rich, and smoothly fluent in the Elven tongue.

Yet it was not only the trees who heard his song. Another's ear was captured and drawn to him. Upon this day he was fated to learn the truth of his identity but also fated to fall in love.

And so Aragorn stepped onto the path destined for him from the beginning of Arda.

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**NEXT: **Strider...

I would highly appreciate feedback :), and if you want to actually read of the meeting of Aragorn and Arwen, you can go to the source in The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen in the books or go read my other story Eternity.


	3. Strider

**A/N:** Wow, I didn't mean to update so long from the last chapter! Sorry guys :)...I've been a bit scattered during the summer and am leaving for my first year of college next week, so things have been a little wild, lol. Thanks to all of you reading this and those reviewing! I personally like this chapter so I hope you all enjoy it! Here is part 3:

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**Strider**

The lands about Bree and its four villages were soaked in a steady downpour of rain. It had been stopping and starting up again for the past three days. Gloomy clouds hovered over them and blocked most of the sun so that a dim, overcast light turned the lands grey and cold. The East-West Road and the Greenway were muddied with ruts turned into puddles of dirty water.

A man called Tom leaned back in his creaky chair and listened to the rain patter and thump on the roof of the watch-house. In only an hour or so, he would close the gate for the night. He was posted at the South-gate of Bree where most the travellers passed through.

He got out of his chair to look out into the rain, but something caught his eye moving in the glistening fall of water. He squinted. It was a dark, tall figure heading for the open gate. Something about him made Tom uneasy, so he waited until he was near enough to hail him.

"'Ello traveller!"

The cloaked man paused at the gate and raised his head. He was even taller from only a couple yards away, and Tom eyed him up and down.

"Hello," he responded. His voice was pleasant enough though his face was still hidden.

"Trompin' about in the rain, huh?"

"Yes, I am." The gatekeeper did not catch the hint of sarcasm.

"Well…" He suddenly grew nervous under the stare of the stranger and realised who he was talking to. It was that Ranger! "Don't go causing any trouble now, you hear? Just go on in. I've got to shut the gate."

The looming Ranger merely moved on without another word. Tom watched as he walked down the streets of Bree and shook his head.

Aragorn passed quickly down the main road of the village, making his way to the Inn of Bree—which in later years would become the Prancing Pony. The sloped path mucked beneath his boots for even with an almost elven step, his feet left tracks in the muddy, churned dirt. He was also beginning to miss the elven cloak he once wore before beginning to journey with his kindred and into places like Bree where Men dwelt. It would have kept off all the rain while the one he pulled closer was soaked to his clothes. For as hardy and resilient as he was, drying off sounded wonderful.

Few people walked the streets and those who were out tried to stay beneath the cover of the eaves and doorways. And they stared as he passed by either in curiosity or disdain. He noticed out of the corner of his eye but paid them no mind. Though he had only been in Bree twice before, he was growing accustomed to the varied reactions to his kin for Rangers of the North were seen as mysterious, odd folk who some thought as mere ruffians of the Wild.

The Inn rose into sight, warm light falling onto the road from the slat beneath the door. It was a welcoming sight. Aragorn quickened his pace and stepped inside. He shook off a bit of rain and threw back his hood before entering further to approach the empty desk. He looked around but saw no sign of anyone so he supposed the innkeeper was in the common room serving guests or tending to some other business. A loud hum of talk, laughter, and mugs clinking drifted from the open archway leading to the common room.

A gangly boy of only twelve years hurried out and looked up at the guest.

"Oh! Good evenin' sir. What can I do for you? You need me to fetch the master for you?"

"Yes, thank you."

The boy nodded and rushed back out. A few minutes later, the innkeeper bustled in. His square face was framed in a thick, black beard and had eyes so dark they were nearly black as well. Yet for his dark looks and stocky build, there was still a friendly warmth to his gaze and a sparkle in his eye. But that warmth cooled a bit when he took a good look at Aragorn. He recognised him for what he was though his face was fair and his countenance noble for the Rangers were a tall people while Bree-landers were of a shorter stature, and the young man's looks were very much like those of the other Rangers that passed through Bree.

"What service can I do you, sir?"

"A room for the night is all."

"We're rather busy, but fortunately we've got a few rooms left. Billy will show you your accommodations." He shouted and the young boy appeared again with wide, curious eyes. "Show the man his room, boy." He turned back to Aragorn. "We serve a fine meal and a good mug of ale in the common room if you have a mind to it. Will you be needing anything else then?"

"No, thank you."

"Just the one night, sir?"

Aragorn affirmed again.

The innkeeper gave a nod and motioned to Billy. The boy led Aragorn out of the entrance room to the upper halls, leaving the dark-bearded man to mumble and shake his head.

"That's the second one to come here tonight. Hopefully there aren't anymore coming out of the shadows this evenin'."

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The common room was filled with travellers and villagers of many shapes and sizes. Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain sat in a boisterous group near the hearth where a roaring fire burned, Hobbits were scattered about the place with their higher voices distinct among the rest, and Men from Bree and other villages filled most the room.

Aragorn paused in the doorway to swiftly scan the place. His sharp eyes caught a glimpse of what he was searching for and he made his way past the Dwarves and groups of men. He settled with deadly grace into an old wooden chair beside the other occupant of the round table.

The other man leaned forward as he pulled back his grey hood. Bright blue eyes greeted Aragorn with piercing intensity and a hint of kindness hidden in the hardness of his gaze. He was at least a decade older.

They nodded to one another.

"Hopefully you've not been kept long, Eldacar," said Aragorn. "This weather made travelling a bit more difficult…"

The other Ranger almost allowed a smile to curl the corner of his mouth. "Since when did a bit of rain stop you? I deem it was something else that hindered your journey besides a shower of rain."

Aragorn shrugged as amusement gleamed in his sharp eyes. "Perhaps. Orcs do tend to get in the way." All amusement fled from his face. "What word do you bring from the Shire?"

"It is secure as usual. There hasn't been any activity for a long while, but we still watch its borders vigilantly. I do not think it will remain this way forever."

"Yes, but I'm glad it is for now. Evil things are stirring everywhere it seems and it heartens me to know there is at least one place still untouched by all the shadow in Middle-earth."

Eldacar's eyes once again scanned the crowded room. Few heeded the quiet pair, especially with the reputation Rangers had in Bree. No one would bother them unless they were brimming with ale or unusually bold and brash. They were even called upon for a tale or a song when the patrons wanted something out of the ordinary or out of the depths of time.

"What news from the Southern lands? We have not heard much of late," said Eldacar. He sat back in his chair.

Aragorn shook his head slightly. No good tidings had come for too long. "King Fengel has passed on and his son Thengel is king in Rohan. Ecthelion is also now the Steward in Gondor fairly recently. It's difficult to speak of the tidings from the East for darkness is stirring too much for our liking. It is said Barad-dûr is being rebuilt and may even be completed. The Dark Lord is gathering his forces and constructing his fortress so he can gain his past strength to strike out against his enemies. His hatred for the Westernesse seems to fuel his dark intentions."

He sighed deeply as his gaze flickered over the men closest to them. No one had noticed the gravely significant matters they were discussing. They kept their voices low. Eldacar scowled faintly as he stared down at the rough, scraped tabletop and lightly tapped his calloused fingers on the hard surface.

"Take heart, my friend," urged Aragorn. Though he was still very young in the eyes of his people, the Dúnedain, he was never without hope. "It may seem dark, but it will not last forever."

The older Ranger nodded his shaggy head.

A raucous thud aroused their attention. Many boisterous sounds surrounded them, yet this one caught their keen ears. Raised voices followed between two men not all the way across the room but not very close either. A company of four dwarves eyed them askance with distaste since they were close to tumbling into the table they sat at. The two men began arguing more loudly than the other voices filling the room, causing a large handful to even grow quieter as they watched. One of them was short and broadly built with a full beard hanging to his chest while the other was not much taller with a balding head and a bulbous nose. Neither was willing to back down so easily.

It was causing a disturbance throughout the room. The innkeeper noticed and pushed through the men in his path to see what was going on. He called for them to stop and leave his inn, but they did not pay attention.

Then a fist was swung.

Aragorn rose from his chair and took a step forward away from the table. Eldacar gave a quiet protest, but he waved him off. He would not stand by as a fight broke out and caused damage for the poor innkeeper.

No one was trying to stop the scuffle as another blow was thrown. And no one saw the imposing figure that suddenly headed straight for the arguing pair. When he was closer, people actually were aware of the Ranger and moved hastily aside with gaping mouths or wide eyes.

"You lout! I'm gonna break that awful nose of yours!"

"You couldn't if I stood still!"

The slurred speech was enough to tell how much ale they had drunk.

Now that Aragorn was only a few steps away, anyone standing nearby had backed away to let him room.

He put out a hand between the two. "Stop this nonsense. Now."

The shorter man was just about to aim his fist at the other but he hesitated at the sight of the tall Ranger. A flicker of alarm glimmered through the glaze of his eyes before he sneered.

"What you want, stranger? Just let us be!"

"Yeah, this isn't your fight!"

"It is now. If you are going to fight, go outside and leave this place in peace."

And then one of them foolishly decided to try and hit _him_.

Those watching tensed where they stood or sat. Shock rippled through them all. Before the stocky man's large fist could come anywhere near striking the Ranger, the young man's hand shot out and stopped it. Most could not even follow the quick movement. The drunken man's eyes widened and he stared openly without thinking to take his hand back.

The taller, dark-eyed man edged away for he was much more coherent, forgetting the argument and why he was so angry. The other, though, still did not understand the situation and tried to swing with the other fist. Aragorn casually dodged it and moved forward into his space where he grabbed his upper arm with one hand and his throat with the other. His hold was not gentle but rather firm without gripping too hard.

"You sir," he said in a low voice, "need to stop at once. I'll not let you continue to disturb the inn unless you intend to pay the innkeeper in full. Go."

He released the bearded man with a light shove before he turned around to return to the corner. Many pairs of eyes watched his back until he found his seat again by Eldacar, so they saw there were two of the mysterious folk. All eyes quickly turned aside to see the drunken man stagger out of the common room in red-faced shame.

Eldacar eyed his companion with a slight frown, and he propped his booted feet up on another chair. "If you wanted to draw attention to yourself, you've certainly done it."

"I'm not worried about that," said Aragorn. "Tonight is not one of those times. I can disappear if I wish."

"They will eventually give you a name, you know, a false identity, if you keep showing up like this."

"Let them," he said with a faint smile. "But for now I am going up to my room to rest. I depart early before the dawn tomorrow."

"I'm leaving Bree after another night here. If there is anything else you require of me, just come ask it." He bowed his head low in the only sign of reverence he could without people being suspicious. "Good evening…my Lord Aragorn." His voice had dropped low to a whisper.

Aragorn nodded to him and stood. "Good evening to you as well, Eldacar. May the blessing of our people go with you."

* * *

Before the sun peered over the horizon and the sky was dark grey with early twilight, Aragorn arose from the Inn of Bree to depart. His cloak was again drawn close about him with the deep cowl concealing his face. The rain was stilled for the time being, yet ominous clouds hovered in the heavens just as the lingering scent of rain dwelt on the air.

When he approached the gates, he saw it was the same man as when he entered the day before. He sat up abruptly and scrambled to his feet.

"Leaving already?" Tom questioned with a dubious eye on the Ranger. "I'll open the gate then…"

Aragorn nodded thanks to him as he passed out the groaning gate. He murmured words of courteous farewell before he was taking long strides down the sodden road.

Tom snorted and shook his head. "Somethin' ain't right about 'im, that strider," he muttered. "Strider…sure is a fitting name…"

* * *

**Next**: Thorongil...

I would love it if I got feedback too :)...


	4. Thorongil

**A/N: **Finally!! Sorry I took so long...I started college in August and just haven't had much time to write what I want to. This chapter was more difficult anyway, but I hope you all enjoy! And I hope there are still people out there reading it...:).

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**Thorongil: Eagle of the Star**

King Thengel of Rohan listened to reports from the East from a messenger of Gondor. Thengel absentmindedly stroked his yellow beard that was faintly streaked with silver and hanging almost to the top of his chest. Many years of life still thrived in his limbs, although lines of hardship and grief were etched in his noble features. His sharp eyes were still bright and watchful as he heard the Gondorian man speak.

He had arrived early that morning before a windstorm rushed into the green plains of Rohan. The cutting gales swept up around the hill of Edoras and beat against the Golden Hall with howling voices that sent shudders down some men's spines for it reminded them too closely of the dark things creeping out of Mordor and stirring in shadowed places to rise up against Men.

What they did not know was that this wind was from the North, cold and harsh but not of the Enemy.

"Thank you, noble lord of Gondor," said Thengel as he rose from his throne once the man told all he could. "If that is all the tidings from your land, we will find you accommodations for the night so you may rest after your long journey."

"Thank you." The Gondorian bowed low with a hand on his breast, his dark hair falling forward around his face.

"Stay however long you desire. We'll not send you on your way until you feel it necessary."

"Thank you again, King Thengel. I am grateful for your hospitality."

Thengel sat down again when the man was taken away. He rested his head in his hand and sighed. The days were not easy and enemies were crossing the borders of his realm and that of Gondor. He would take any aid offered to him if it ever came.

The cold winds struck Meduseld with renewed vigour, causing the king to lift his head again. Suddenly, the doors opened. They were too heavy to be flung by mere wind, but they did seem to open more quickly as the guards stepped aside to let someone pass through.

It was a lone man. The air whipped around his feet, billowing his grey cloak about him in a rippling tide and stirring his shadowy hair around his head so that part of his face was hidden. It followed him within as if created by his firm, long strides until the doors were pushed closed. The voices of the gales stopped, yet it was the stranger who held Thengel's rapt attention. All the guards and people present also seemed to stare.

"Hail, King Thengel!" cried the tall, mysterious man.

He stepped forward after the guard who led him in moved aside. He knelt before the dais and stood at a command from the Rohirrim king. Thengel grew even more intrigued when he realised the man was younger than he thought at first. He had drawn aside his nearly-black hair to reveal a face of youthful nobility and piercing eyes that made Thengel at slight unease. This man was certainly not of Rohirric blood.

"Hail, stranger! What brings you here to my hall in this stormy hour? A name was not given you." Thengel sent a fleeting glance at the guard who led the young man in.

"I have no name to give, but my purpose is clear. Enemies come against you each turn of the moon when your forces are already strained and men under your command die too often. I offer my services to you, King of the Mark."

The stranger knelt again, this time with his sword suddenly unsheathed and lain across his hands. He bowed his head and waited for the king's response, ignoring the sudden tension he had caused amongst the armed men in the hall by drawing out his weapon so quickly.

Thengel was not sure what to do. This man was unknown to him and had just arrived. How could he trust him to serve and fight under his command? But his last thought before the stranger's arrival caused him to consider accepting the offer as he recalled being open to take any aid offered him. And here it was kneeling before his throne.

_What can one more man do?_ he thought. Yet when he looked down upon the young warrior, he could see already the quickness of his limb and the nimbleness of his hands with his blade. _One more man may make a difference._

The King of Rohan rose to his feet and stepped down from the dais. He approached the stranger. "Rise, lad, and put your sword away. I accept your offer, but no pledge will I have you make just yet for I still don't know who you are. You will prove yourself trustworthy when you fight alongside the Rohirrim."

The dark-haired stranger stood, and Thengel realised just how tall he was. He had to tilt his head back a little bit to look into his eyes.

"Thank you, King Thengel. What would you have me do?"

"For now…we'll find you accommodations for however long you wish to stay and see that you know what you're doing here. I will send word to you tomorrow morning."

"Then farewell for now," said the young man with a bow of his head.

Thengel signalled for someone to lead him out to find somewhere to reside. Once he was gone, he did not return to his place on the throne. He rather stared into the burning embers of a brazier to his right and listened as the wind began to fade from the land as if it had done its work.

* * *

Aragorn woke early with the dawn and stood outside as still as a sculpted figure of the great Men of old as the grey twilight blushed with purple and rose on the Eastern horizon. It still amazed him that such darkness was in the East while such a great light still rose in the same direction to give hope to the Free Folk of Middle-earth. Could the Shadow ever blot out the very light of the sun?

"Pardon me, my lord, but the King Thengel requests your presence this morning. He desires for you to meet with the First Marshall of the Mark Heorl."

"Then take me to him."

He nodded and began leading Aragorn through the sloped streets of Edoras. They were silent until the man finally glanced at the Ranger of the North and spoke.

"There is already mention of you in Meduseld. Especially when it was said that you were accepted into the service of the king. Is it true?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then I suppose I should welcome you. I am Aldor of Edoras and the First Mark." He paused in his step to look at Aragorn. "It is a bit surprising though that he trusted you so quickly. Where do you hail from?"

"From whence the wind blows," he answered with a mysterious glint in his eyes.

Aldor eyed him askance and did not waver in his study of the young man until he seemed satisfied. He shrugged off the vague answer and decided it was best not to pry. He did not think he would want to displease him anyway: he seemed quick in body and mind with great strength in his arms. At the same time however, he did not seem at all a man who would lose his temper or become angered easily. His mysteriousness was nearly aggravating.

They ascended the steps of Meduseld but did not enter. A man was already waiting for them between the sentinels standing guard. His rank was only obvious by the command he possessed and the detailing of gold on the scabbard of his sword.

Aldor bowed his head in respect and Aragorn did the same for he was not ignorant. The First Marshall Heorl laid a pair of firm, piercing eyes on the Ranger.

"Good morning, young lord," he said. His voice was not loud but still powerful. "The king bid me speak with you. He said you have joined the ranks of the Rohirrim. You may not look as one of us but you have the look of a Gondorian, and they are the most trustworthy and hardy of Men. So I do not doubt the king's decision. He favours the men of Gondor anyway, so I'm not surprised by your presence. What does surprise me is why you would choose to come here and ride amongst the Rohirrim…But that is not our concern for the time being. Come! We will talk."

* * *

A few days began to pass in Rohan. Cool showers and freezing gales ceased. Warm winds and clear skies above the green, rolling plains ushered in the summer of the Southern lands. It was much warmer than any season the Northern lands of Eriador had to offer, but Aragorn grew accustomed to it as he did any environment. He did not notice the sweat upon his back or the tanning of his skin as they rode under the zenith of the sun.

Although he was considered a rider of the Rohirrim, he had yet to actually to protect the lands of Rohan or lift his sword against a true enemy instead of an opponent in training. It did not discourage him for it was well that they were momentarily at peace or without obvious trouble at least in the first few days he was there. That was about to change.

It was a night clouded with only half of a moon. A cool breeze scented with grass and earth swept around the great hill of Edoras.

Aragorn lay resting peacefully when he suddenly awoke to the sound of horse's hooves clattering over stone and thudding over earth. He slid out of bed and rushed to a window facing the road. A rider had passed on his way to the Golden Hall of Meduseld. Something was happening to bring a rider in the middle of the night to the hall of the king.

Aragorn hastily dressed and threw on his cloak. He clasped the silver star at the nape of his throat and dashed outside into the dark. When he reached the doors of the Golden Hall, one of them was thrown open and only one of the guards was standing watch.

"Halt, lord!" the second guard remaining commanded. He grabbed a torch at arm's length and lifted it towards Aragorn. His brow drew down. "Ah, it's you. What are you doing here at this hour?"

"I would ask the same of the messenger who passed through here. I was awakened by him and hoped to discover what urgent news has brought him in such haste at such an hour."

The blonde-bearded guard stepped aside. "Try what you will, but I do not know if they will tell you anything."

Aragorn entered the hall where dying embers of the braziers glowed warm in the shadows. Low voices echoed towards him from the other end of the great chamber. They stopped when he made his presence known. King Thengel stood with the messenger and another man.

Thengel recognised Aragorn and beckoned him forward. "You there, fetch Heorl! Be quick!"

Aragorn bent his head in respect before he hastened away to do as commanded.

Heorl did not take long to realise what was happening and what the younger man was saying after he was woken by pounding on his door. He muttered under his breath as he rubbed at his yellow beard, yet Aragorn heard.

"Dunlendings?" he pressed. "They continue to be so foolish to attack a power far greater than their own?"

"Yes. They don't attack with full forces, and they prey on villages that are nearer the borders or in any way less protected. There is no noble fighting with these wild men. I would guess they are the reason for this disturbance."

They hurried back to the hall where Thengel waited. In low and rushed tones, he immediately began to tell Heorl the news received. Creases formed around his eyes as his kingly distress melded into his features and not only into his voice.

"Dunlendings have attacked on our borders. I don't know why, but they came when darkness first began to fall and without warning. They rarely spare women or children from their wrath and any men they see, they kill. The village might even be burning with the fire of their hate. Heorl, go with whatever men you can muster! Go now and make sure they do not leave without feeling the vengeance of the Rohirrim. I'll not let them get away again."

"It will be done," said Heorl.

Aragorn's eyes gleamed. At last he would face the enemy.

And they would find him a more fell adversary than they had yet faced.

* * *

Even as clouds rolled across the dark heavens obscuring the stars and the deep blue, the little moonlight there was grasped faintly at the swift-moving figures riding across the plains in the middle of the night. Shadows covered them as the Riders of the Mark moved with great speed away from Edoras.

As they went on, smoke curled upwards on the horizon once they peaked a steep slope. Aragorn frowned and clenched the leather reins in his hands. Not only had the Dunlendings attacked the people but their land as well.

The village grew nearer and the light of fire brighter. Much of the fires were already quenched, yet lingering flames still flickered in the night against the shadows. Cries for aid or of pain reached their ears. It was not a sound Aragorn wanted to ever hear again, yet he knew it could not be so. There would be many more battles and grim scenes to come.

Heorl halted them at its edge and whirled his mount around.

"Some of you will stay here and give what aid you can while the rest of you come with me. We will hunt these men down as the beasts they are!"

A small contingent moved into the village, and the other riders began to follow Heorl who dashed out into the night's throes without fear or hesitation. Aragorn was momentarily torn. He knew his skill in healing but also of his skill in tracking and battle. Before he paused a moment more, he was galloping after his companions to bring down the Dunlendings. A time would come for healing.

But soon they slowed. Heorl was scowling and muttering under his breath as Aragorn rode up beside him.

"You've lost track of them?" asked Aragorn.

"I never really had their path! I followed blindly in the direction they said they went. I can go no further tonight unless I have light."

"Maybe not."

The Ranger of the North slid off his horse and bent low to the ground. What little moonlight and starlight there was faintly illuminated the earth. It was just enough. He rose and mounted.

"If we continue this way, we'll catch up to them before dawn. They are not likely to stray and are on foot. We have the advantage."

Heorl gaped at him a moment before comprehending. He suddenly nodded and clapped a hand on Aragorn's shoulder as he passed in front of him. "Then this path we'll keep. Your eyes are like the eagle's, my friend. But we must move on."

The shadows followed behind them as they raced into the night once more. Soon their enemies would know their wrath.

Aragorn gave a shout to Heorl when his eyes caught on a moving shadow in the distance. "Up ahead! We're but a few leagues away!"

A familiar voice spoke near him. "You have the sight of the Elves, lord!"

It was only a moment before he realised it was Aldor, the guard who came to him the first morning in Edoras.

Yet there was no time to think more on it. Soon, the Dunlendings realised the Riders of the Rohirrim were upon them. They stopped their race on foot and stood fast together with weapons drawn. Their voices lifted up in curses and cries of defiance.

Heorl gave a cry of his own in reply to the brigands. It was a fierce call echoed by the thunder of hooves and drawing of swords. The riders did not pause in their charge and plunged into the uneven masses of men. A clamour of battle tore the still night air apart even as blades tore flesh.

Aragorn was not far behind the fiery Marshall, steering his bold mount as skilfully as the Rohirrim between the outstretched weapons of the wild men as they tried to down the horses first. The Rohirrim were too clever for such a tactic.

A cool wind from the North began to breathe upon the land of Calenardhon. The clouds rolled back from the moon, and more light fell from the sky.

The Dunlendings' sullied faces glared up at the Riders, two great rivals yet again in battle. They were known for the trouble they gave the Rohirrim, but the Rohirrim never allowed their horrible acts to go without retribution. They refused to be bullied; and Aragorn began to feel the animosity and the righteous anger. These were indeed wicked men.

His sword gleamed cold in the night as it fell down on the enemy. He suddenly felt a hard tug on his leg that threw him off-balance. He righted himself and whirled his horse around. They were in a tight press, and he saw two of his companions being pulled off their mounts. If they were taken to the ground, they could easily be slain.

Aragorn urged his horse forward at once. The Dunlendings tried to hinder him from helping his companions, but he would not have it. He raised his sword, and his brave mount reared on its hind legs. The enemy hesitated to attack the fierce warrior for suddenly they could see their mistake and what they had awoken. He brought down his fell blade swiftly and powerfully. When their fellows began to fall quickly, the others nearby hurried to move away.

The Ranger pressed on and reached his companions as they were being pulled to the ground. A cry of pain as an enemy's dagger found its mark spurred him straight into the fray. He leaped from the saddle, tackling a Dunlending into a crumpled heap and rising swiftly to his feet. He stood steadfast at the side of the unhorsed Rohirrim and fought back the enemy so they could regain their footing and awareness. Although they were stunned at first by the abrupt shift in fortunes, they struggled to stand and fight alongside the mysterious and mighty warrior.

The enemy was broken. They began to scatter in all directions once they realised the fight was lost. Those leading them on had surrendered to cowardice and dashed away the quickest.

The Rohirrim claimed victory once again. But many found themselves distracted by the visions of the dark-haired, nameless warrior amongst them as he struck a blow to the enemy greater than three of them combined.

* * *

As soon as they reached the village again, even as the softening of the sky proclaimed the coming of the dawn, Aragorn said not a word and made his way to the wounded and dying where a few other men were caring for them. His companions watched with curious gazes. Once he was gone, some drew together.

"Who is this man among us? I still haven't heard from whence he hails or what his name is," said a beardless youth.

"None have."

The wind still blew from the North, cool and grasping. They adjusted their cloaks and some loosened their leather jerkins or gauntlets.

Aldor joined them when he heard their conversation. "Even so, he's proven his worth and his loyalty." His eyes strayed to the two riders who were saved by the mysterious stranger. They were nodding. "Those filthy Dunlendings did not even know what to do when he was fighting them."

"The Gondorians are mighty warriors. Isn't he of their kin?"

"He must be…"

"But wouldn't he have said so? He would not even give a name."

Aldor gave them a grim smile. "Then we shall give him one: a name worthy of such a man."

* * *

Aragorn was kneeling beside an elderly man who was laid on a bedroll upon the ground. It was the third of the wounded he had tended to since his return. Again the Rohirrim were surprised, but they allowed him to help. His long-fingered hands deftly wiped away the blood and massaged life back into the man's arm without once causing any discomfort or resurface of pain.

When he stood, rolling back his sleeves and drying his hands, he saw Aldor waiting for him.

"Good evening, Aldor. What service do you need?" asked Aragorn.

The Rider of the Mark shifted on his feet and tried to make eye contact with the taller man. "Heorl says we are to remain here until nothing more can be done. And already there is little more we can do, but he says word has been sent to Edoras to bring provisions for the people. We most likely won't leave until after the sun's risen."

"Thank you. There was something else, yes?"

"Perhaps. A fire is being built. Come and join us."

Aragorn paused only a moment before following. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the older man would be all right. When he was satisfied that the attendants nearby were taking care of all the wounded, he joined Aldor and some of the other soldiers of Rohan at the fire. It flickered with arms reaching upward toward the star-scattered heavens and a crackling voice speaking with the breathy wind.

He felt the eyes watching him as he sat, especially the two men he had rescued from the clutches of the Dunlendings. Yet no gaze was unfriendly or mistrusting. It was also a comfort to sense the fellowship amongst the men who had lived and fought together, through the troubled times and the peaceful. The only doubt was whether they would treat Aragorn the same.

A little while was spent in silence. No one spoke as they stared into the fire or grew lost in their own thoughts. It was not until a tinge of pure gold appeared in the East that anyone spoke.

"Thank you, stranger," said one of the men who were unhorsed in the struggle, "for coming to aid me and my companion. We would have been lost without you."

"You are most welcome," said Aragorn with a courteous nod of his head. He tossed a stick into the flames.

"Yes, I have rarely seen such fighting," said another. "Nor such loyalty from a foreigner…"

"And you have even tended to the wounded of the village. You will not remain a stranger here long."

"Then we shall give you a name," said Aldor. He sat straighter and looked at the Ranger. "Thorongil you shall be called: Eagle of the Star." His eyes strayed to the silver star clasping his cloak at his throat, and he motioned at it. "For the star you wear has some great importance we do not know; and your eyesight is like the eagle who soars so majestically above us. There is no name more fitting or deserving of such a man."

Aragorn bowed his head. "And I thank you greatly. I will bear the name with great honour."

A slow smile crept over his lips as his fingers brushed over the star on his cloak, the star of the Dúnedain, his people.

_No_, he thought as he turned to watch as the sun rose and the wind died away, _the Sun could never be covered by the Shadow._

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**NEXT: **Dunadan

**NOTE: **Feedback is much appreciated :). I would love to know how the chapter was or what you guys think of this series so far! So please leave a review if you have time.


	5. Dunadan

**AN: **Yes, another one! I'm not quite sure how good this one is, but I hope you guys still enjoy it. It's pretty short too, but I'm sure the rest of them won't be :). This name was a little difficult to do...Thanks for all the reviews! You guys are amazing! Enjoy!

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Dúnadan: Man of the West 

"_He passed out of the knowledge of Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men, both evil and good, and uncovering the plots and devices of the servants of Sauron."_

Leaves stirred along the ground in swirls of gold as the wind rushed beneath. A pair of booted feet stepped through them on the soft earth without a sound. The quiet figure paused and turned around.

The golden woods of Lothlórien stared back at him, almost beckoning him to return to their enchanting depths with outspread arms of silver laced with gold leaf fingers. There was light and warmth like a transparent mist that wrapped around the spirit, yet it was already fading as he moved nearer the borders of the Elven kingdom.

He breathed deep of the freshly sweet and crisp air. It was time. He could not stay any longer.

Aragorn turned his back on Lothlórien and continued walking until he felt the shift in the air. Even then, he did not look back, only ahead to the path that lay before him. He would return to Eriador, the lands of the North where his kin the Dúnedain dwelt although the true desire of his heart lay in Lórien: Arwen Undómiel, Evenstar of her people and daughter of Elrond, Lord of Imladris. His heart ached to willingly be parted from her, but there was much more to be done before they could be together again. He grimaced faintly when he finally gave thought to what Elrond would say or do when he discovered the truth. Neither had mentioned it when they plighted their troth upon Cerin Amroth.

Swiping those thoughts aside, he turned his attention to other matters.

The years of service in Rohan and Gondor had changed him, but even more so had the journeys into the far South and East. He could tell tales no other man of Middle-earth could imagine and speak in tongues most men never had heard. But even so, he was still a mortal man and needed rest. That was why he had stayed in Lórien.

Yet now he had to return to the responsibilities awaiting him in the North. His people's Chieftain had been gone long. They would have need of him. But he also planned to stop in Rivendell on the way.

The days passed. He was alone. Not even many creatures of the earth kept him company in the wild. However, loneliness did not overcome him, and he gave it little thought. He was a wanderer, but not bound to forever be in solitude.

And then the day arrived.

The afternoon sun was filtered by strands of silver cloud lined in gold against a grey and gold sky as Aragorn walked into the valley of Imladris. The difference was not as obvious as in Lothlórien, but it was still noticeable. The earth seemed to thrive at the presence of Elves and it was as if evil could not step foot in the Elven realm.

Aragorn felt a weight and weariness slip like the falling away of a heavy mantle from his shoulders.

Rivendell awaited him.

* * *

Curls of smoke puffed into the air. They drifted up from the arched window to the roof of the dwellings of Rivendell. The bent figure tapped his fingertips on the smooth stone as he leant out the window, watching the clouds stretch over the heavens and the birds flit about the trees and drawing on his wooden pipe. 

The old wizard was staying in the House of Elrond for a few weeks. His name was Gandalf the Grey—Mithrandir to the Elves. His bushy brows drew together as his thoughts turned to deeper and darker matters. He and Elrond were supposed to meet later in the evening to discuss a few affairs.

He pushed away form the open arch and walked through the halls of the Elven abode. It was peaceful and beautiful. Yet the quiet did not last when he entered a courtyard with vines entangled about the slender columns fencing it. He took the pipe out of his mouth and squinted. Could it be?

"Gandalf, how good it is to see you."

"And to see you, Aragorn son of Arathorn," said Gandalf. He finally recognised the man standing before him. Then he started, nearly dropping his pipe. "The years have been long."

His surprise was caused by actually looking into the Ranger's eyes. Although he was different in appearance—now a matured man of great stature and nobility—it was the transformation in his grey gaze that shocked the wizard most. Much had happened. Very much indeed. And yet it was not a depth of despair or sorrow from his trials that shone so bright: it was a hidden spring of joy and hope he could never fully conceal and could never be quenched. Wisdom gleamed just as brightly in their depths. The years of experience and maturing had certainly left their mark.

"Too long. How has the great Mithrandir fared in Middle-earth all this time? Every once in a while, I heard tell of your name in the distant places…"

A sly twinkle sparked in Gandalf's dark eyes. "And your name was spoken on the tongues of many in the South, I deem. Your name and yet not your true name. Thorongil it was they spoke of and his mighty deeds done against the Enemy both in Rohan and Gondor."

"Is it a true name?" he mused. "It was mine, all the same…as many are."

"So it was you. I thought it so. Who else would confound kings, defeat armies on land and sea, and be loyal to leaders of Rohan and Gondor?" The Istari chuckled and stroked his grey beard. "To think the Dúnadan was there under their very noses! The one who could rightfully claim the throne…" He frowned in thought again as his words trailed off.

Aragorn gave him a look of chiding and crossed his arms over his chest. Somehow it made him seem even older. "Don't look too far into the future, my friend. Now is not my time. I don't know when it will be. The Dúnadan I may be, but Thorongil I still am to the Men of the West."

A small company of Elves passed nearby under the roof upheld by the slender columns. Gandalf nodded in the direction they disappeared.

"To them, your far kindred, you are. They call you by that name often."

"True, yet there are many times I do not feel deserving of the title. The Númenóreans were my ancestors, yet we have fallen a long way." He paused. Before Gandalf could encourage him, he encouraged himself. His eyes brightened and his shoulders straightened. "But they still are my kin and a great people nonetheless. We have not abandoned Middle-earth."

"As many of the Elves have?" Gandalf murmured.

Aragorn eyed him uncomfortably. "I did not mean to say anything of them. Their time is ending. However much I'd wish for them to stay and help fight against the Enemy, I understand why they go. But I will not leave. I am still needed."

"Indeed you are, my young friend." The wizard chuckled. "Perhaps not so young any more. Much has changed, I see."

"Has it?" he murmured. His eyes grew distant. "Yes, things have changed, old friend. They certainly have. My journeys into the South and the West and the East opened my eyes to a great deal. And I met people I was grieved to leave, men who I fought alongside or spent everyday life with. Friends are hard to come by in the life of a wanderer…"

Gandalf pocketed his pipe and stepped forward. He laid a hand on the man's shoulder. "You're not doomed to be alone all your life, son of Arathorn."

A radiating of his countenance surprised Gandalf. A brilliant smile shone brightly upon his lips.

"I know it well. That is not my fear."

Gandalf did not miss any of the subtleties—or obvious signs—in Aragorn's change in disposition or the tone of his voice in his words. It was not only trial and tribulation he had gone through. Something greater and stronger was on his heart.

"And you accuse _me_ of speaking in riddles," Gandalf mumbled in good humour. When he looked up again, Aragorn was concealing another smile and leaning casually against one of the pillars. "I assume you won't say what it is."

A slight dampening of Aragorn's spirits caught the Istari's attention.

"Lord Elrond alone will I speak of it to. And…I don't know if he'll feel the same."

Gandalf could guess then what it might be. He stared and wondered. Could it be the last of the Half-elven had chosen mortality? Only one other had made such a decision for Idril of Gondolin had loved a mortal, but he was granted entrance into Aman and immortality. Could the daughter of Elrond, wisest and fairest of all maidens, have given up life and made this sacrifice for Aragorn?

"I must go, old friend," said Aragorn. He pushed away from the columns carved with skilled hands and threw the folds of his cloak over his shoulder. His clothes were travel-worn and faded and his boots caked with dried mud. "I'm glad you are here. We will talk again."

"He will understand in time. And you were not the only one who made this choice."

Aragorn let his hands fall to his sides as he sobered. "Is it so obvious...Yes, yes I know I am not alone in this. I never really am alone…"

"No, you certainly aren't," declared Gandalf. He lifted his chin and his brows bristled. "Don't ever think so. There are many who care for you," he smiled warmly as a grandfather would, "including me."

"Thank you Gandalf."

"You are the Dúnadan, but there are many more Dúnedain with you and following you."

"I won't ever forget it. There is too much responsibility on my shoulders to ever let it slip even a little." He glanced to his right. "I must go."

"Then I won't detain you anymore. It is good to see you here."

"You also Gandalf."

Aragorn bowed his head in farewell, his eyes alight and his lips quick to smile. Even in the midst of darkness and struggle, the Dúnadan still shone the light of his hope, a hope and light like that of his forefathers of Númenor.

Before he disappeared beneath the same archway as the Elves who had passed earlier, he was hailed by a tall Elf with shoulder-length dark hair.

"Aiya, Dúnadan! Lord Elrond has asked for your presence as soon as possible."

Aragorn's face fell a bit. Gandalf watched as all his emotion disappeared and he nodded his head in greeting to the Elf. The boy—for he was as a boy to the ancient Istari though already nearing his fiftieth year—was steeling himself for what might come. Yet Gandalf knew Elrond would never be angry with his foster-son even if he had taken the heart of his beloved and only daughter, no matter the anguish his heart and soul would be rent with at the parting.

"I will come then," said Aragorn.

As the Elf nodded and was leaving, Aragorn glanced once more at the old, grey-bearded wizard. All light and joy were still there. He had not forgotten who he was and what responsibility was given him. He was the Dúnadan, the Man of the West and leader of the Dúnedain of the North. His destiny already called him to lead the Men of the West into victory and another age of peace and prosperity. He would be lifted up above many of his forefathers with a truly great destiny indeed.

* * *

**Next**: Heir of Isildur... 

**NOTE**: Let me know how it was! I'd love some feedback.


	6. Heir of Isildur

**Heir of Isildur**

"_Then he turned to Boromir again. 'For my part I forgive your doubt,' he said. 'Little do I resemble the figures of Elendil and Isildur as they stand carven in their majesty in the halls of Denethor. I am but the heir of Isildur, not Isildur himself.'"_

* * *

The tides of war and the final struggle between Middle-earth and its great Enemy, Sauron the Dark Lord, were finally stirring across all the lands. The One Ring was moving and in the hands of a mere hobbit. Great tales would be woven of the events that were beginning and the names of all involved would be written into the legends of eternity.

The Company set out from Rivendell: a Fellowship of nine setting out on the Quest of the Ring to destroy it forever.

Two mortal men were amongst them.

Aragorn paused on the crest of the hill. He looked out over the land of Hollin—called Eregion by the Elves—and glanced over his shoulder. Gandalf stepped up beside him and followed his gaze.

"It is a forsaken land," said the wizard. He tapped the ground with the butt of his staff and adjusted his grip on its smooth wood. "But not always so. It is good you are with us, Aragorn, for our way would be longer and darker if not for your guidance. These lands are not as known to me as they are you, yet I deem they are not as familiar to anyone else living as they are you."

"Perhaps," said Aragorn. "It is my hope that my knowledge of the lands of Middle-earth is of great aid to this quest. But it is not my only hope for this quest…"

Gandalf could sense the distance abruptly put between Aragorn and the present. He knew precisely what weighed on the Ranger's heart, the thing that wound its way around his thoughts with greater frequency than ever before except the time he was told his true identity and lineage.

This quest for Aragorn was not only a quest to destroy the One Ring and bring the Dark Lord to his doom. It was also a journey to his destiny. A journey to the throne.

Aragorn's hand rested almost imperceptibly on the sword at his side. But it was no ordinary blade. It was the Sword Re-forged, renamed Andúril by Aragorn when it was remade in the House of Elrond from the shards of Narsil King Elendil once wielded thousands of years past. The only living Heir of Elendil now wielded the Flame of the West: the Heir of Isildur who was come out of hiding to reclaim his place and stand against the greatest foe of his fathers before him.

It was a great burden to carry, and Gandalf understood. The fate of Men was indeed something not to be born lightly for Aragorn was the only one who had the power and ability to unite the Men of Middle-earth, and he was the first for over a thousand years to have the opportunity to regain the throne of Gondor and Arnor. Even with great wizards such as Gandalf and Saruman, the Elves, or the Dwarves, Sauron still had one whom he feared more than any. He feared the Heir of Isildur who could unite Men against him under one banner and in one mighty force greater than the dwindling Elves or the aloof Dwarves. Also, the Dark Lord could never forget the memory of Isildur and Elendil who had dealt him a blow that nearly vanquished him at the end of the Second Age, or their ancestors before them of Númenor whom he hated with much passion. He hated them almost as much as he did the Elves. The rise of the Heir of Isildur would cause him a spirit of fear not known to him for thousands of years.

The rest of the Fellowship had stopped as well and waited for Gandalf and Aragorn to finish their whispered conference. Gandalf finally turned round and told them to take a little food and drink for a brief respite while he and the Ranger spoke.

"There is no doubt you will be of great benefit and service to this Fellowship and this quest in many ways. I cannot see what lies ahead, but I can see that every member of this Company has vital choices before them and a fate that will never be forgotten."

"Then we should make haste and seek out the aim of this journey," Aragorn said with a look over his shoulder at the others. A lightness touched his eyes when they fell on the hobbits. The creatures were sometimes peculiar and simple, but they could bring a cheeriness and lightness of heart to the dreary trek that even Legolas the Elf could not. He would not say it aloud, but he found himself glad of their company.

His eyes then fell on Boromir of Gondor, the second Man of the Company. Boromir was an entirely different matter. He was a proud man and often difficult to convince his way was not the best. Aragorn would never forget the moment in the Council of Elrond when the man of Gondor expressed doubt and scepticism towards the Ranger when he was revealed as the Heir of Isildur. The look in his eyes was enough to grieve Aragorn's heart like the piercing of a blade run into his chest. It passed quickly, but he did feel the sting of the great insult.

Boromir was on his feet gazing up at the sky then ahead of them deeper into the land of Hollin. They passed into Eregion earlier that day, and with the passage the cruel winds had softened and the air seemed improved somehow.

Yet hindrances they were hoping to avoid soon troubled their path.

* * *

After a cruel defeat on the mountain of Caradhras, an attack in the night by Wargs, and a reluctant but necessary choice to journey through the Mines of Moria, the Fellowship of the Ring found themselves immersed in its dark depths. Even when it was their only choice, Aragorn was reluctant to pass into the mountain for foreboding clouded his heart.

Deep into the first day journeying through the gloomy and eerily empty Mines, they came across a variation of paths to traverse. One of these was a steep climb up a wall onto a ledge they needed to reach to continue on their direct route to a way out on the other side of the Misty Mountains.

Aragorn had been keeping up the rear most of the way since he could not navigate here in Moria. Only once had he entered its depths and once was more than enough. He had hoped never to step foot inside again, but there was no other way.

Gandalf was first to begin climbing the steep wall with ladder-like steps carved into the ancient stone of the mountain. Legolas followed after, then the hobbits, and Aragorn came behind them. Once he was up over the ledge, he turned back to give Gimli a hand. The Dwarf hesitated only a few moments before accepting the help. Boromir was last.

The broad-shouldered warrior did not have much difficulty on the ascent for his strength was great, yet he was not as nimble or light as most his companions, so the last reach to get over the edge to flat ground delayed him a bit. Aragorn offered a hand.

Time seemed to slow as if to watch the exchange.

Aragorn was schooled in hiding his emotions or even keeping them in check. The years had given him temperance and a level head, but he still was tested every now and then. This was one of those moments.

Boromir barely glanced at the proffered hand and did not take it. He heaved himself up onto the ledge by his own effort. After rising to his feet, he brushed past Aragorn.

Aragorn's arm came back to his side as he also stood. Not only had Boromir refused his aid, he had treated the Ranger as if he was not even there. Little had they interacted for the first leg of their journey, but this was the first act of effrontery since the Council of Elrond.

Enmity did not lie between them, and a form of comradeship even grew while they burrowed a path through the snow and carried the hobbits on Caradhras. Boromir did not seem to harbour antagonism, but neither did he want to accept help from the man who claimed to be the Heir of Isildur, his sovereign. Aragorn was right when he recognised the pride and stubbornness in the man of Gondor from the beginning.

They moved on in silence, yet Aragorn's thoughts were loudly resounding in his head.

It was not just the fact that Boromir did not seem to believe in who he was, it was the train of thought that lead from it. If Boromir behaved in such a manner towards Aragorn, would other Gondorians behave the same? One man Aragorn could let pass and forgive him the slight. But if all of Gondor reacted to the Heir of Isildur in this fashion, what could this mean? Boromir was in fact a representation of his people as the son of the Steward.

_I will hold onto the hope that he is one of few or the only one_, thought Aragorn. He ducked his head as they passed under a low archway. _Since he is the son of Denethor, the ruling Steward in Gondor, it makes sense that it would be difficult for him to accept the return of the King who would take his place_.

The thought alone that he would return as King and not as a strange traveller sparked a fire in his heart. The Men of the West were his people, and he desired desperately to bear them as his responsibility as it was meant to be. He wanted to impart the hope burning deep within him and lead them out of the darkness of this age. He wanted to stand before Sauron in victory and see the Ring destroyed so that the Dark Lord would fall once and for all.

But an arduous journey was still ahead, so he did not allow his thoughts to leap too far in advance. Their focus needed to be on the present, especially as they made their way through the dark tunnels, echoing caverns, and ancient stone of Moria.

Not even Aragorn could see what lay ahead. Not even Gandalf knew the fate awaiting him at the Bridge of Khazad-dûm.

* * *

As a nightmare, the passing of Gandalf the Grey shook the hearts of the Fellowship and the foundations of the Quest. In shadow and flame he fell, taking with him a demon of the ancient world to save the rest of the Company.

As a dream, the days in Lothlórien passed in peace and comfort under a canopy of gold and a carpet of green, gold, and white for it was the last place in Middle-earth where the golden elanor and white niphredil blossomed in the grass. Here they mourned the loss of the great wizard.

No one was more affected than Aragorn by the turn of events. He had known Gandalf for most of his life and considered him an individual who was vital in guidance, wisdom, and companionship throughout the years. Now Aragorn was their leader. Could he bear such a weighty responsibility with Gandalf gone?

He was sitting in deep contemplation under a mighty mallorn tree. A soft breeze stirred in his dark hair and pale sunlight shone gold through the leaves above. Lórien held many pleasant memories for him, but even they could not completely overcome the grief of Gandalf's loss.

His head lifted.

"Lady Galadriel."

He rose and bowed. The Lady bowed her head in answer and reached out a hand. Her fingers touched his chest and the white cloth draped over her arm shimmered.

"Do not be troubled, son of Arathorn. Terrible is the loss of such a one as Mithrandir, yet there is still much to do." Her eyes bore into his. "_You_ still have much to do."

"Yes, I know it well for it weighs on my heart daily. Much more now that the full responsibility is upon me for this Fellowship. Must I choose between the path of the Ring and my own destiny?"

"The time will soon come when you will know which path to take and the choice will be yours."

"It is a long road ahead of us, especially for the Ringbearer," said Aragorn. His piercing grey eyes wandered from Galadriel's gaze towards the lingering members of the Fellowship still in sight. Frodo was amongst them. "If I could help bear the burden, I would gladly do it; but it is for him alone to bear. None of us can do more than protect and encourage Frodo along the way…if even that."

Aragorn's brow creased with thought. Galadriel turned her head, her golden waves catching the light of the sun—or perhaps giving off the light themselves. One could not often tell with the Elves.

"Protect him you will, Dúnadan," she said in a soft voice. "He will need you and his other small companions before the end, though I cannot see far or what might befall on this perilous journey of yours. Let us speak of it no more: you need your rest."

"I will never truly rest until this quest is finished and the Dark Lord is destroyed and dethroned."

"You speak truth for you truly have not rested all these long years."

"I have hope that someday I will," said Aragorn.

A faint curl of her lips belied a smile. "Cling to that hope, Dúnadan. You will need it in days to come."

They parted with fair words, leaving Aragorn alone with his thoughts again. They turned to his companions whom he watched from a distance. The change was already apparent from the last time he watched them weeks ago in a brief halt in Eregion. The hobbits still bore an unshakeable cheer, yet not all that happened so far had gone without effect. The seriousness and danger of their journey created a faint sombreness amongst them. Legolas and Gimli also did not rise to bickering as quickly. Their hearts were quieted as well.

Even so, the ties of friendship were strengthening and growing every day and through every ordeal. It was plain to see how much more comfort and comradeship existed between the members of the Fellowship.

Last again was Boromir in his study.

Although these changes applied to him as well, the Gondorian still seemed more aloof and brooding. At the moment at least. From the little conversation they exchanged since they arrived in Lothlórien, the Ranger could sense unease in the man. Aragorn strolled over to him with greeting. Boromir returned it.

"I see you spoke with the Lady again," said Boromir. His keen eyes searched Aragorn's face. "You know her well?"

"Well enough. No man can say he knows her well." He saw the look in Boromir's eyes and was again slightly exasperated. "Yet no man can either say evil of her. She and Celeborn have only ever given aid and guidance to the enemies of the Dark Lord. This is one of the last havens from the Shadow where we can be free from fear and worry, for no wicked thing may pass the borders of this land and live. Your doubt is needless, Boromir."

The Gondorian looked down and said nothing.

Aragorn wanted to encourage him, to say he would see the high white towers of his city and all those he cared for again, but for some reason the words would not leave his tongue. Others came instead.

"Never lose hope, Boromir. This will end. The Free Peoples of Middle-earth will soon be rid of the Enemy, and the Shadow will be gone forever. His destruction is at hand."

Boromir's gaze lifted again. "Let it be so. I hope it is so. He's troubled my people far too long already."

Aragorn did not miss the 'my' instead of 'our' when he spoke. They were his people also, but Boromir was still unwillingly to accept his lineage. They were getting along all right, especially since Gandalf's death, but the Gondorian Captain still refused to acknowledge Aragorn as his sovereign. Aragorn was not seeking power or control. He only wanted Boromir to believe the truth, to know that his kin would also believe in him and have great joy to see the King return to Minas Tirith.

He never wanted power…He only wanted to bear the responsibility running through the blood in his veins.

And would they truly be able to avoid the matter forever? Neither he nor Boromir had mentioned a word of it. Of course, the journey had been full of far more important and treacherous things to occupy their minds. The nearer they came, though, to Minas Tirith it could not be avoided much longer. The call for the Heir of Elendil had been made, a call for the Sword-that-was-Broken and now remade in the dream told by Boromir at the Council of Elrond. His eyes wandered to his resting place where Andúril was set against the grey bark of a mallorn tree.

"He's troubled us _all_ for too long," said Aragorn. "Even in the North, his arm reaches and stirs trouble." Boromir was about to cut in, but Aragorn kept on knowing what he would say. "The Dúnedain were always grateful for our Southern kin fighting a continual battle against the encroaching Shadow, but do not forget that we also were fighting a battle. Because most the world truly has forgotten. We are a fading and forgotten people."

"In Gondor, we did not even know if the Dúnedain still lived."

"There seem to be many things thought in Gondor that are not of truth."

Boromir's expression was difficult to read at Aragorn's words. It was mixture of defensiveness, uncertainty, and contemplation.

"All the same," continued Aragorn with a faint smile, "the people of Gondor are a mighty and noble race whom I was glad to dwell with for a time many years ago. I am proud to be of their blood."

Boromir's eyes alighted for he also was very proud of his people. "As am I. None greater now walk the earth."

Aragorn did not completely agree, but he was content with saying no more for he did not want any more tension between the two of them than was necessary. The gap was slowly closing.

* * *

Tragedy befell the Fellowship of the Ring too soon after the departure from the beautiful, tranquil lands of Lórien.

Down the Great River they travelled, the rushing waters drawing them downstream with hands that could either crush them or cradle them in a gentle grasp. It was not until they reached Amon Hen that trouble made its assault. They pulled the boats onto the shore and took time to rest.

Chaos erupted.

Aragorn had been having enough worries and doubts trying to break down his walls and distract him; yet they increased tenfold when Frodo went missing, Orcs appeared in the area, and the Fellowship was separated in a mad confusion.

It was not until the Horn of Gondor rang clear and resounding through the woods and hill of Amon Hen that Aragorn felt dread gather like a dark cloud around him. He sped with all haste to heed the call of the horn.

It was too late.

It may have felt like a knife to his heart in the Council of Elrond when Boromir—a man the Ranger hoped would be glad to know of his existence—openly doubted his identity, but the knife in his heart was different this time. It pained him and ran into his chest deeper than the first.

Boromir was not going to live.

Although many dead orcs were scattered about him, what Aragorn saw first were the arrows lodged in his flesh like darts of darkness and death protruding from the mighty warrior of Gondor. Dark blood glistened all over his broad chest.

Aragorn knelt at his side immediately for life still coursed through him.

Boromir began to speak: "I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid. They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them. Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed."

"No! You have conquered. Few have gained such a victory. Be at peace! Minas Tirith shall not fall!"

But Boromir's last breath had passed his lips, his last heartbeat given to charging Aragorn to save their people.

In the end, Boromir knew Aragorn was the only one who truly could save them. The Heir of Isildur was the one who could rise up and strive with the Enemy. And if the Ring was destroyed, so would Sauron be; and Aragorn would be the one who could lead Men into an age of peace and healing. For so long he searched for hope, and there it was the entire time journeying along with him: Aragorn son of Arathorn, Heir to the throne of Gondor. He died at peace with the knowledge that Aragorn would indeed go to Minas Tirith and be victorious.

Peace also came to Aragorn. The last words of his brave companion had encouraged his heart for there was hope that Gondor would greet him with open arms and glad hearts. If Boromir believed in him at the last, so would the Men of the West.

Aragorn rose to his feet as tears fell down his cheeks for his fallen comrade. But mingled with the grief was great hope.

The Heir of Isildur was going to Minas Tirith, and the Dark Lord would tremble at his coming.

* * *

**AN**: I won't even bother to explain why this took so long...:) Fortunately, the next one is actually close to finished too, so I hope to get that up fairly soon. Thanks for sticking in there and leaving feedback. Hope everyone enjoys this piece! I think there's only 2 more until this series is finished.

**Next**: Elessar...


	7. Elessar

**Elessar: the Elfstone**

"'_In this hour take the name that was foretold for you, Elessar, the Elfstone of the house of Elendil!' Then Aragorn took the stone and pinned the brooch upon his breast, and those who saw him wondered; for they had not marked before how tall and kingly he stood, and it seemed to them that many years of toil had fallen from his shoulders."_

"_And they named him Elfstone, because of the green stone that he wore, and so the name which it was foretold at his birth that he should bear was chosen for him by his own people."_

* * *

In the face of the great Shadow, a small beacon of hope stood in the little light remaining in Middle-earth. Though the Enemy and his hordes were numerous, the Captains of the West did not overlook the opportunity—this one chance—to muster together and assault the very gates of Mordor. They would not balk in the face of the deepest darkness of the Third Age and one of the greatest threats to existence in Middle-earth from all the Ages before.

At their head was the most fearless of them all, the Captain of their company who led them into the black depths of Mordor to challenge the Dark Lord. His will was set and his heart determined. No longer would Sauron encroach upon Men's lands and further his dominion. Now was the time the Free Peoples of Middle-earth would march upon him in a mighty force of thousands of valiant warriors: a last stand for the light and for freedom. In the darkest time, they only shone the brighter like stars against the blackest sky.

Aragorn rode in the company of the sons of Elrond, the remaining companions of the broken Fellowship, and his kin the Dúnedain. A change manifested in him as each day passed and brought him ever nearer his rightful place. The rugged Ranger had nearly completely fallen away, revealing a man of ancient Númenor and the blood of Elendil and Isildur hidden beneath so much toil and wear. But he could not have been better prepared for this moment than with all the long years roaming the reaches of the North, South, East, and West and enduring every test of strength, patience, heart, and hope placed in his path. Each difficulty built him up for the next until even the worst darkness the past months brought could not daunt or dishearten Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

He was steadfast. He was brimming with hope and light. The hosts of Gondorians and Rohirrim and Dúnedain sought his standard when despair or fear threatened to overwhelm their hearts.

Yet he was not without doubt.

He was troubled just as every man amongst them. It was to almost-certain death and defeat they rode. They could not hope to actually claim victory over the armies of the Enemy which were far greater in number and strength. It was upon the shoulders of a small hobbit their true victory rested.

The Black Gates loomed ahead in the rocky and desolate place. Foul stenches assaulted their nostrils and all colour seemed to have been dried from the land, leaving a bleak scene before their weary eyes.

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged a look of understanding. Their gazes turned again to the fortified Black Gates. Aragorn noticed Pippin's eyes widen a little and his head swivel to look at the men around him as if to receive some sign of assurance. Aragorn caught the dear hobbit's gaze and held it for a moment. The confidence and faith luminous in his eyes returned colour to Pippin's face.

"None show their faces," said Prince Imrahil, "but we know they hide behind their high gates waiting to strike."

"Then let us go to meet them and call out their foul lord," declared Aragorn. "Will he not come forth and face us himself?"

Gandalf tilted his chin. "Not while there are others to do his bidding. Let us go forward." Then he added as an afterthought, "Each race will be represented among us."

As their assemblage was quickly chosen, Elladan and Elrohir steered their mounts toward Aragorn's. No words did they speak, but each brother clasped Aragorn's arm and bowed his head. He returned the gesture then joined the others who would approach the gates.

Even though the sun was veiled by the foreboding cloud covering, dim light still caught on the emerald on his breast. The Elfstone glistened green to match the silver fire in its bearer's eyes. Aragorn's hand unconsciously lifted to the Elfstone, and when his fingers touched the large emerald, his mind recalled the cry of the heralds as they passed through the shadowed, gloomy lands: "The King Elessar has come to reclaim this land! Depart hence or yield them up!" Such cries echoed in the hills and valleys and open grounds for days, yet not one sight of an enemy was ever seen except for a small band who were easily overwhelmed. But it was strange to his ears to hear his name called out with such authority and to hear the title 'King Elessar' spoken as more than prophecy. What felt years ago but was only months, Lady Galadriel had bestowed the emerald in its silver brooch to him with her blessing and reiterating of foresight of what name he would bear.

The stone's hard, cold surface suddenly recalled him to the present predicament.

An overwhelming sense of destiny trembled through him. The weight of what they were doing weighed on his thoughts. This was it. This was the moment the fate of Middle-earth hung in the balance.

And he would not ask to be anywhere else.

Their small party halted at the looming gates.

"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him..."

Would Sauron himself actually show his face? Some part of Aragorn almost hoped to see the Dark Lord face to face as his great ancestors Elendil and Isildur did in the days of old: to be King Elessar challenging their ancient enemy who was not yet fully destroyed even after both Elves and Men had bested him in the past.

But he knew, just as none of his fathers were able to destroy Sauron, neither would he. Not alone anyway. He would be a part of a unity of people to finally cast down the Enemy once and for all.

However, King Elessar had already faced the Dark Lord. Their wills had already striven for mastery. And Aragorn won.

In the depths of the palantír he gazed and found himself engaged in a silent battle with Sauron himself until with a final surge of will and strength it turned from the Shadow to his bidding. If Sauron could not best King Elessar in such a contest, he feared his fate would be no different if they physically stood before one another.

Sauron's fear stood at his gates: he would not come forth.

But he did send one of his minions out to meet them.

The foul-looking Messenger who once was a man said, "I am the Mouth of Sauron." His gravelly voice dripped with disdain and arrogance as his dark eyes flitted over them. Yet he did not come any closer even though a few black-garbed soldiers escorted him out the Gates.

Aragorn immediately felt his blood stir in his veins as soon as he saw the Messenger. His proudly raised head, his cutting voice, and darkly judgemental gaze put on a sickening display of self-importance and assumed superiority. And the next biting words he spoke only served to incite Aragorn's cold anger further.

"Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me? Not thou at least!"

His hard black eyes fell on the future King of Gondor with silent and mocking laughter. If not for the gravity of the situation, anyone of a sound mind might have laughed at the Mouth of Sauron for thinking himself above such a man as the Elfstone. At first glance, perhaps Aragorn still was hard of feature and rugged, but only a fool would not see beyond that first glance. And the foul Messenger of Sauron was indeed a great fool.

"It needs more to make a king than a piece of elvish glass, or a rabble such as this. Why, any brigand of the hills can show as good a following!" taunted the Mouth of Sauron. His cracked lips pulled back from yellow teeth in a cruel grin.

His grin vanished immediately when Aragorn took hold of his eye and did not release it.

To the others, they saw nothing but an abrupt concentration in their faces: one noble and stern, the other curdled and unsightly. No words were spoken and no movement stirred either man.

But it was anything but silent and still to the eyes of the Captain and the Messenger. Aragorn had not only captured his gaze but his conscious. It was almost as though words were formed between them.

"_You will be crushed! You are nothing..."_

"_Then why does your master hide in his Tower and his forces behind their Gates?"_

A twitch flared in the Messenger's cheek. Fear was not very well hidden behind his conceited mask. _"Our power is far beyond yours. You cannot overcome my master's armies!"_

Aragorn still held him fast with an intensity the foul man could hardly bear much longer. _"I have contended with your master and have overcome him. Do you not think then that you are nothing to me?"_

And his gaze became so powerful and fierce when his will suddenly lashed out against his opponent that the Mouth of Sauron recoiled. "I am a herald and ambassador, and may not be assailed!" he cried.

Aragorn barely heard Gandalf's clipped reply. For so many long years he battled the forces of the Shadow in quiet and in hiding. No more. Word of his appearance was already spreading to both enemy and ally: he was no longer in hiding. Now was a time for open battle and assailing the enemy face to face. They would know exactly who was at their door to stand in the face of the Shadow. Elessar was come to battle his greatest foe.

Parley with the Mouth of Sauron came to an abruptly disastrous end. They had Frodo. It was likely they also had the Ring. But they would not accept the terms: they would fight to the death rather than acquiesce to Sauron's will.

Time grew slow and sluggish once they raced back to the Hosts of the West and the Black Gates swung open, loosing forth a slew of dark forces more numerous than they could have imagined. Even more armies under the sway of the Lord of the Mordor poured from the land. Soon the men of the West were surrounded by a swarming sea of darkness and foul men and creatures and orcs thirsting for their blood. All hope seemed lost.

_No!_ thought Aragorn with final desperation. _Though we likely die this day, we will not be taken without such a fight as they have never seen before!_

He stood upon the crest of a grey hill with Gandalf at his side, his eyes burning like the silver fire of the stars. He tore the bonds from the black bundle in the arms of the Gondorian banner bearer, and the standard was lifted up upon that hilltop in an unfurling ripple of silver and white on black. The White Tree, Seven Stars, and Winged Crown gleamed pure and bright against the gloom and reddened light of fire and the shrouded sun. The banner of the King Elessar was raised!

And King Elessar himself stood beneath the majestic standard before all to see. His tall, regal figure was not outshone by the searing white of Gandalf beside him. Rather, the pair seemed more alike than ever: a mighty Istari alongside a mighty lord of ancient days united against the Enemy. Men's eyes lifted to see the Captain and their hearts were strengthened as hope breathed back into their lungs.

Aragorn was King Elessar. He was the Elfstone. And he looked upon the sea of enemies and smiled.

* * *

**AN**: Wow, maybe the fastest I've ever updated...Hope you guys enjoyed part 7! There is only one left actually. I thought there would be more but it works out this way. Thank you everyone again for reviewing and even reading my writing :).

**NEXT**: Envinyatar...(last part of the series!)...


	8. Envinyatar

**Envinyatar: the Renewer**

"_Verily, for in the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and Envinyatar, the Renewer."_

Aragorn's heart pounded in his chest. Before him stood three makeshift thrones of green turves, three great banners flying in the wind above. The largest was a White Tree upon a field of black, the Winged Crown and Seven stars glittering in the soft sunlight above the Tree. Hundreds of years had passed since the standard was last seen. Many still marvelled to see it unfurled upon the wind but wondered more at its meaning.

Shadowy hair framed a face once worn by years of toilsome journeys, but many were wiped away now that peace was returning to Middle-earth and he would soon claim his right to the Crown of Gondor.

As he walked toward the highest seat, his eyes shone as stars in the heavens. He reached the seat and ran his fingers along the turf. This "throne" was quite ordinary and austere compared to the mighty throne sitting in the great hall in the Tower of Ecthelion, but it was one step closer to the fulfilment of his purpose. Soon he would find himself in that majestic place.

Aragorn felt refreshed after the wearying brevity of the defeat of Sauron now that he was newly clothed and washed of the grime and black orc blood. The memory of the great cloud of darkness slithering up into the heavens and fading away played itself over again in his mind. All sound had faded at that decisive affair when the world's fate was finally decided.

Gandalf approached from behind. A strange mixture of weariness and joy was etched in his wizened features. "They are here. I fear they have little strength left, but their hearts are strong. It is time you exercised your true power of healing for no one has needed it more than they. Come."

Gandalf's white robes glinted in the light as he moved away. Aragorn pushed aside anymore thoughts once he and Gandalf reached a place surrounded by fragrant trees of Ithilien and carpeted by cool grass. Two small forms lay limp on pallets, wrapped in soft blankets. His heart was rent for the faces were hardly recognisable. Two small hobbits forgotten in the tumbling of fate but soon to be raised up above men.

"Dear Frodo," he murmured when he pressed a warm hand against the shaken hobbit's cheek. His eyes were deep pools of pity and sorrow knowing what manner of suffering his dear friend had endured. The hobbit's cheeks were no longer round and rosy: they were sunken and wan. His dark curls had gotten mussed in the turmoil of his struggles as did poor Sam's who lay near him with the same look of repose on his sleeping face. Aragorn put his other hand on the cheek of Sam. "And loyal Sam," he said with a gentle smile. "You had hope even when Frodo let it go."

He heard Gandalf's garments rustle behind him. "They have toiled through fire and the depths of shadow, my friend. It is a wonder they still live for there is but a spark of life enduring deep inside." He smiled faintly. "Hobbits are much stronger than most men believe."

"Indeed." Aragorn felt the faint strain of life within each hobbit. This would take time.

Time...he had plenty now.

Gandalf left Aragorn to his work, and it was hours later when he returned, Aragorn still bent under his labour. Life glimmered in his eyes and, as Gandalf looked closely at the Heir of Isildur's hands, it was almost as though a radiance as of soft moonlight danced upon his skin. To common eyes nothing would be out of the ordinary, yet the Istari had eyes for the unnatural.

Aragorn paid no heed to the world around him, and Gandalf dared not disturb him. A smile did touch his lips when he saw the change stirring in Frodo and Sam.

Aragorn would not stop until they were brought far from the brink of death and despair.

* * *

The sweet fragrance of Ithilien was caught up by the breeze and ruffled along the tips of grass. The stream glistened under a warm sun, reflecting the green trees and array of colourful flowers on its banks upon the gently moving surface.

Aragorn strolled amongst the beeches and beside the stream. After the chaos and darkness of years gone by, it was strange to finally realise it was ended.

_It is over at last_, he thought. _Can it really be true?_

How life would change! It would take getting used to for the man who once lived in the constant awareness of his enemy and lived a life in hiding. Of course, the threat was not entirely rooted out. Lingering traces of Sauron's followers remained. In time, they would be found and dealt with.

_When I am King_...Aragorn came to a sudden halt in thought and gait. _Am I even ready? This day seemed so far away._

"My King Elessar?"

Aragorn turned at the sound of a young man's voice. The youth looked far too young to carry a blade in battle. He made a quick bow. "My King, the Periannath are awake."

Only the hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth, but the change in his countenance nearly glowed. "Thank you. I will come shortly."

* * *

The time they waited for Frodo and Sam to regain their health was quiet. Not until the Ringbearer and his faithful companion were well would anyone even give a cry of joy or sing a song of rejoicing. Once the hobbits awoke and were brought before all the great hosts gathered on the Field of Cormallen, the celebration began.

The sun fell low on the horizon and dusk painted the heavens gold and crimson. A warm, fragrant breeze stirred the banners of Gondor, Rohan, Dol Amroth, and King Elessar flying about the pavilions raised on the Field of Cormallen. The white, gold, blue, black, silver, and green cloth did not block the sound of the river's rushing or even the faint and distant murmur of the cascading waters of the Window in the West. Torches were lit to cast light within them before night fell, and what food and drink they had was laid out like a feast on the tables. Even though it was all hastily done and with meagre provision, you could not have found a merrier celebration. These men were witness to one of the greatest events in the history of Middle-earth and in the company of the bravest hobbits to step foot out of the Shire.

Some with fair voices were called on to sing, others raised their mugs in toast, and the Field of Cormallen was filled with talk and laughter and song not heard in over a thousand years.

The noise stilled for a moment when a herald announced the entrance of the two hobbits who saved Middle-earth. Then the King Elessar was announced behind them. A great roar of admiration rose up from the armies of men. Frodo and Sam looked up at Aragorn and warm greetings were exchanged even though they earlier had had a joyous meeting.

Gandalf was also close and cast a contented gaze on them. "The hands of a king are the hands of a healer," he murmured. "And all things shall be renewed in the days of the King."

Aragorn's smile turned to Gandalf when his keen ears caught his words. "Those days will come..."

"They've already begun!" The wizard's gaze fell pointedly on the hobbits. "They've already begun..."

Frodo's large blue eyes met the sharp grey stare of the Heir of Isildur. "Sam and I are extremely grateful, Strider...I mean, Lord Aragorn. Thank you. Gandalf told us what you did."

"You are most welcome," he said with a slight bow, "but I would never let you or Sam be taken by shadow. And do not fear to call me Strider. We are friends! Come! Let us enjoy this night and join our other friends who are still with us."

As they sat at meat together and feasted, Aragorn's attention was drawn beyond his company and the friendly banter of Legolas and Gimli. A surge of happiness brightened his countenance. His kin, the Dúnedain, were mingled with men of Gondor so much so that it was difficult to tell them apart unless they wore grey cloaks with the silver star or the black and silver livery. He excused himself from his seat at the head of the table and took a quiet stroll around the large pavilion, listening to snippets of conversation and song as he passed different clusters of men. It had been a long time since he was at a gathering of Men instead of celebrations of the Elves. It was quite different, but quite good.

He was pleasantly surprised to realise that few noticed his presence passing by. Everyone was engaged by the ever-increasing swells of joy and sense of freedom. The invisible bonds of fear and oppression were loosed and torn asunder as soon as the One Ring melted within the very fires that created it and its Master perished in the same instant.

Just as their hearts were free, so were their tongues. He smiled when he heard a company of Dúnedain and Gondorians regaling one another with tales from the Battle of the Pelennor Fields or at the Black Gates.

"The troll's fist was larger than my head!"

"Then it is good I came to your aid when I did..."

A round of laughter sprung along the table. It sounded as though a Gondorian with short black hair had nearly been skewered by the spear of a troll when a tall Ranger of very matured years stepped in to help. Aragorn recognised the Ranger. He also found himself lingering to listen. He would have joined them if it were only the Dúnedain and not also the men of Gondor. His own kin were accustomed to his presence and his lineage, but the men of Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth mostly saw him as the Heir of Isildur, the Captain who commanded the hosts of both the dead and the living, the King who bridged the ancient past to the present when he emerged from the hidden wilds of the North to claim the long empty throne.

"I owe you my life, noble Ranger."

"Ah, but there is no debt. We are brothers for the blood of Westernesse runs in both our veins. Brothers have no debt amongst each other."

The others began to speak, but the Ranger lifted his eyes as he listened to his companions and noticed Aragorn. Their eyes met. He gave Aragorn a reverent nod but said nothing to draw attention to the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. After so many years, he understood his lord's desire for discretion and his lack of desire for lavish attention. Of course, the Men of the West of Gondor and Arnor were in no way juvenile or asinine, yet their mood would surely shift if they realised the very Heir of Isildur was among them.

The matured Ranger tore his gaze away after a long moment of respectful regard. Aragorn smiled softly and continued on his way, admiring the mingle of men. War and a common Enemy had brought them together, and the bonds of friendship and freedom would seal them.

A new realisation suddenly struck him: it no longer mattered what _his_ destiny was or what was personally ahead. All that mattered now was the fate of his people, his own blood and kin within the realms soon to be under his reign. The well-being of others had always been an important intention—if not _the_ most important—throughout his life, yet his own course had dwelt at the forethought of his mind and heart in preparation for the day he would ascend the throne. The day that fast approached.

A King would soon return to Gondor and Arnor. And Men would at last be united again. The southern and northern kingdoms had long lain separate and kingless.

No more.

He could see the name of Envinyatar was not given him in vain for here at the end of the Third Age sat men of the two kingdoms Elendil and his sons founded long ago, forming long-lasting alliances. He was indeed the Renewer, a renewer of kingdoms and the unity of Men in Middle-earth.

Finally some noticed Aragorn and recognised him. A chorus of greetings interrupted the hum of talk and laughter as more and more brave warriors realised their companions were hailing their future King and rising to their feet.

Aragorn raised his hands. "Please, sit. I am honoured enough by your company. This is a night for celebration and rest." A curious smile tugged at his lips. "And I am not yet King..."

The men laughed a little and returned to their seats when they realised Aragorn cared little for veneration that night. He appreciated the respect but no more than was necessary.

So from table to table he sat, from group to group he walked until the darkest of night passed and a faint lightening of coming dawn emerged. It was significant to the men for it was much like King Elessar's coming to them. He arrived when the night of war and the Shadow began to suffocate all light, stayed through the darkest time as he inspired courage and hope, then helped bring the dawn when night was at last defeated.

They not only respected him: they loved him. Even as he revealed in his wanderings that evening, it was plain to their eyes that this man cared for them more than he cared for himself. Genuine selflessness suffused his character.

And that made him a true leader.

Now that Middle-earth had peace, Aragorn was also finally at peace.

Although one day all mortal men in Middle-earth must die and Aragorn's fate was no different, his name and his legend would endure throughout the ages of the world. The kingdoms under his rule would flourish and stand strong until many eras had passed. And his heirs would remain even longer till a time when the names of Gondor and Arnor were almost forgotten.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Alas! This is indeed the end...It was a blast to write and greatly interesting to study the many layers of Aragorn that parallel with his many names. He's been my favourite character since I first read the Lord of the Rings years ago.

I also hope this last chapter is enjoyable and a good ending. I'm hesitant on it and would love to know if there's anything I should add or change to make it a better ending.

**Many genuine grateful thanks to all of you who read this series!! And especially to all of you who left me feedback and reviewed :). That was very helpful and encouraging. And writers always need a little encouragement right? :D It's also just great to know you guys are reading my stuff. **

I'd love to know what you all think! I respect your opinions and love to hear from you amazing people :D...Let me know what you think of this piece as a whole too.

Much love,

Beloved of Aragorn


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